


Just Another War

by edmundforpresident



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-World War II, Trigger Warning: mentions of effects of war, trigger warning: PTSD, trigger warning: mentions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-28 23:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15060044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edmundforpresident/pseuds/edmundforpresident
Summary: There are quite many and different triggering topics that are mentioned, but not really discussed in this piece. What appears frequently is the effects of war. I will try to tag accordingly, please stay safe.They may be back in Britain, but it's no longer the first war they've witnessed. For some of them it's the first war in a long time they haven't participated in. In a nation filled with damaged veterans and millions of hurt and damaged civilians, the Pevensies do the only thing that feels right.





	1. Peter's Apology

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,
> 
> This is the first fanfic I am posting here, but not the first that I write. It's going to be various one shots and shippets that come to mind as I think of the Pevensies in post-world war II UK. I'm not british, so I can't really speak of the culture with confidence. I also have a tendency to use the american version of words, so please bear with me. I don't have a beta fyi
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! The first parts have been published on tumblr.com first, where I can be found under the same url. That is; @edmundforpresident
> 
> Talk to me if you wanna chat with me about this or anything else.
> 
> Without further ado,
> 
> Here's the fanfic

The war had ended, in fact in many people’s eyes it had been over for many months. Other’s didn’t particularly agree with that sentiment. The nations hospitals were filled with wounded civilians and army personnel alike.

There were young boys who never got the time to enjoy life before war broke out, who never told the girl they liked out on a date. Some had never even had the time to finish school. Some never got to finish their university degree.

Men were also abundant. Too young to fight for Britain under the first war. They were brought up to believe that their fathers had fought in the war to end all wars. It was never supposed to be another one. They had left their wives, girlfriends, parents and children. Some of them were poisoned by hate, but too few knew where that hate should be placed.

One could also find factory workers, who had been on duty when a bomb had been dropped. Too many of them had too few limbs left.

Medics, nurses and doctors also needed help from their colleagues. They had seen death one simply could never unsee.

There were wounds, missing limbs, broken bones and physical trauma as far as the eye could see.

Some troops had yet to come home. Hogging beds in French hospitals and churches. No one had been prepared for the masses. The neverending queues of soldiers.

***

At a small school in England, one teacher had decided to do the little she could. She herself had lost a brother, and her mother claimed her father still woke up in cold sweat. Decades after the previous catastrophic war.

She taught 18-year-old boys. Those who hadn’t been drafted but who rather were left behind. In just some months they would be amongst the first to start their university degrees after the war. In the hopelessness of it all, with BBC reminding them of the horrors over the radio each and every day, she had decided to challenge her students.

They were tasked with writing letters to veterans. They could sign with their name if they so desired, but it couldn’t be addressed. They would be delivered to the local British Army office, who in turn could stay responsible for the distribution.

She gave them 90 minutes to complete the task, giving her ample time to correct some of their math homework. It was the last class of the day and she had told them that they could leave as soon as they were finished.

The first left after mere 10 minutes. They had written down a couple of sentences.

“Thank you for your service” showed up in abundance. Only some of them had added their names.

The next half-an-hour the crowd thinned down substantially. The letters piling up were now reaching length of a couple of paragraphs. These letters too, in one shape or another, thanked the soldier for their service.

With 30 minutes left, only one of her 20 students remained. Mr Pevensie, in the far left corner had spent an awful lot of time writing. Multiple papers were scattered over his desk and it all seemed to be a mess.

However, upon inspecting him further, the teacher found him in utmost focus. As the bell rang, Peter rose on his feet and gathered his papers. His utensils were put away and he handed her 4 sheets of paper.

“It’s not much, and I would rather have known to whom the letter was addressing. Given this I did my best. Good afternoon, miss” and with that Peter Pevensie simply walked away.

It was with great curiosity she started reading the letter he had left behind.

_“Dear Soldier,_

_I wish to convey to you my utmost apology. I humbly apologize not only for what you have lost, suffered and endured, but also for what is to come. There is pain and cruelty in war, and it never ends when those in powers decide it is so. You didn’t know what you signed up for, and it doesn’t end when you’re told you may leave. The war has tormented you for the past 5 years, and in the process, it has claimed your life, from now till it ceases…”_

***

A week later, the local office for the Royal British Army, received a parcel. It had been opened by a soldier, as the secretary still struggled with fear daily. One could never be weary enough. In it was a stack of letters and but attached to it was a paper with text on it.

“ _Hello,_

_I am sending you a parcel with letters my students have written to veterans. Please deliver them as you see fit._

_Have a good day,_

_Miss James_

_Paddington Upper Secondary School_ ”

They had received numerous letters to veterans after the war. Some had sent gifts, others money, but mostly what they received was letters. They knew that some of their veterans had lost it all. Some had no family members left, while others were so broken that there was nothing left to fix.

The pile of letters was brought to the Secretary’s desk. There they lied for nearly a week before a there was any time to read them.

Each letter was inspected and read. Most f them were finished rather quickly and ended up in a box. Whenever it filled up, it was sent off to a hospital where it’s contents could be distributed accordingly.

At the bottom of the pile was a thicker letter. The handwriting was exemplary, and some places the ink had started to spread, as if water had been sprinkled over it. When it was inspected one could smell a faint hint of salt.

Slowly, the secretary began reading the letter. Unlike most of the other letters, this one started differently. It was written differently. As if it was written by someone who knew. But the letters had come from a school.

 

_“..._

_No medal of honor or praise will erase what you feel in your heart. What you have endured does not change. I would gladly bestow dozens of medals to you if I had even the faintest hope that it would help you._

_No matter what I do or tell you, you have seen things which should not be seen. Heard what must not be heard. Felt what no one should have to feel._

_You have sacrificed more than you thought you had. Given more than you had to give._

_Still, you’re here. A damaged soldier, from a damaging war. I will not thank you for your service. How can we thank someone who has lost so much. No. But what we can do is apologize. From the bottom of our hearts…”_

***

With suppressed sniffles, clenched hands and watery eyes, the secretary knocked on a door. Besides the wooden door was a brass name tag. “Major Harrington”. A grunt one could only assume meant “come in”, came from the other side, and the secretary let themselves in.

“Major, a letter has come in, and I believe it is in your best interests to read it” The secretary simply placed the letter on the desk, excused themselves, and walked out the same door they had come in.

Major Harrington had seen much of war the past years. He was an old man. He had been drafted during the First World War, and had stayed within the army ever since. Even if they had told the public that the war on continental Europe had ended, he had never believed them

He had seen the League of Nations rise and fall and the Spanish Civil War. He had seen Mussolini and Hitler rise from where no one had expected, only to flip the world upside down.

Major Harrington simply knew war. He was a hardened fellow and was perceived as such.

The letter on his desk seemed to be something else than endless reports to do, so he opened it and read it.

There were only 4 times in which Major Harrington had cried.

The first when he was 8 years old, and he fell off his very first bike.

The second when he was covered to his knees in mud in the trenches, and they told him the war was over.

The third was when he married Mrs. Harrington, a girl he had met upon his return to England.

The fourth was when his only son had been born.

Today, Major Harrington of the Royal British Armed forces cried again. For the fifth time he cried, silently wiping away his tears, further contributing to the saline content of the letter in his hand.

“ _…_

_It doesn’t matter if you came home from the war today, last week or several years ago. Nor does it matter if you have yet to come home. You, more than others, are exhausted from the war. Yet the feeling that you didn’t do enough lingers._

_Please understand that you never let us down, soldier. You aided your country in crisis. Men in suits and top hats decided upon the future of your life and you were never consulted._

_We let you down. As a people, as a nation and as human beings. We forced you into a nightmare you can never recover from. We did this to you, and all we can do is apologize…”_

***

Within 24 hours, three separate printing presses across the United Kingdom had received a typed up version of the letter. It had no title but was simply addressed to “Dear Soldier” and at the bottom was just the name Peter.

Three copies turned into hundreds, which in turns became thousands, tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of letters.

It was folded up and placed in envelopes carrying the insignia of the Royal British Armed Forces. After a week the first letters were sent out. Veterans in the big cities such as London, Liverpool, Birmingham, Bristol, Edinburgh and so on received the letter in their mail.

The Royal Mail had received a tsunami of letters, and it took months for the massive amounts to die down. By feet, bike, car and train, the letters spread over the British countryside. At one point the veteran hospitals received more letters than new patients. The next weeks and months, every single British veteran they could account for, received a letter in the mail.

It did not take long for the conspiracies to begin. When the soldiers found out it wasn’t a letter just for them, but rather one that had been distributed to the masses, the questions rose.

They called it "Peter's Apology" and more people knew it by heart than were willing to admit it. Bit the questions started rising.

Who was this Peter?

In the beginning, some assumed it might just be an old veteran who himself had known war. This theory was however quickly discarded. Some also dabbled with the idea of it being a conspiracy from the army generals, in an attempt to please the soldiers now that the war was over and the unemployment rates sky rocketed.

Someone in the Daily Herald had suggested that it had come from none other than King George VI, but this had been laughed at more than any other theory.

Someone also suggested that it had come from a Peter in parliament.

In the end what had become the theory people preferred was that someone, probably a veteran, had sent it to the Army, who then had redistributed it.

Whoever it was, they held the British veterans’ utmost gratitude. In many homes, the letter had been framed and hung up over the fireplace.

***

Three weeks after Peter had submitted his letter to Miss Jones, the letter had been delivered by the mailman in the Pevensies’ mailbox.

Still unemployed, it was Mr. Pevensie who gathered the mail that day. Along with the paper and some bills he found the letter. It held great similarities to the letter he had received when he had been drafted.

His pulse quickened, and his breath started increasing its pace. He practically ripped the letter open. The sheets of paper were quickly turned to see if it held any information that would mean he might be hurt again. Whatever he looked for, he didn’t find it.

Therefore, the only imaginable next step, was to read it. He found his reading glasses and looked down at the paper.

“ _Dear Soldier,_

_I wish to convey my utmost apology…_ ”

Mr. Pevensie shook his head. He was confused. After returning from the war everyone had thanked him. The army officials had thanked him and welcomed him home. Then he had been left to his own devices.

London’s streets were littered with veterans. No one had any jobs. Some were homeless. They were all looking for money. Some way to get by.

He kept reading. Never before had he read something with so much intensity. Before the first paragraph was finished, he was teary eyed, sniffling as he read.

The further he read, the shorter his breath and harder his cries. While he at the beginning had been standing, leaning to the wall, he had ended up sliding down and was now crying on the floor.

_“…_

_England is not the home you thought it was. It will never be as you remembered. You might have returned, but this is not the England you knew. This is not the England you fought for._

_The streets of London have been bombed in air raids, but it’s not the physical changes that are different._

_You are._

_While the army officials welcome you home, congratulating you on your contribution to end this war, your war isn’t over._

_This world isn’t just, it’s cruel. The first part of the war is over, but the second has just begun. It’s a fight against yourself, and it will never end._

_I am asking you, begging you, to hold your head over the water and remember to breath._

_We’ve let you down soldier. But we do not want to lose you. You are not expendable._

 

_Sincerest apology,_

_Peter”_

***

An hour after the mailman from the Royal Mail had walked through their gates, Susan Pevensie did the same. It was 15.34 and she was, as always, on time. She had peaked into the mailbox to find it emptied and thus continued to open the door to her home.

“Hi Dad, I’m back” she called out.

There was no reply. At least not one that consisted of words. Instead she heard sobbing from the living room. With hurries movements she dropped her coat and bag.

In the living room, clutching his body, her dad lied, crying on the floor. The tears were a never ending river and coated his face. The sobs echoed in his chest into the room.

Susan fell to her knees, reaching around her dad and she held him. Right now she was not only Susan, 17 year old girl. For Susan held him with all the experience of a Queen. A 32 year old Queen who had held her subjects when another war had ended. But the man in her arms was still her dad.

“Dad? Dad please. Talk to me. You’re here, I am here.” She whispered.

She kept holding him, and after long moments, she saw the letter he was clutching. Carefully she eased it out of his shaking hand. It was stamped with the insignia from the armed forces. That alone made her wince uncontrollably.

But there, at the bottom of the page she saw what made her at ease. Tears started welling up in her eyes.

“…

_We’ve let you down soldier. But we do not want to lose you. You are not expendable._

_Sincerest apology,_

_Peter”_

A smile grew on Susan’s face, and as her father started to sob again, she could feel him loose up. Years of tension slowly melted away as he cried.

She leaned her head on his shoulder and chuckled as lightly as one would, given the situation, and whispered.

“He is always going to be the Magnificent”


	2. The Boy Who Used to Visit Hospitals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again,
> 
> First;
> 
> Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide.  
> Other warnings; mentions of trauma and wounds. Not really descripted, but it is there.
> 
> Secondly;  
> Hello there fellow people! Here is the second chapter. It's in the same slight AU as the past chapter, as the letter Peter wrote is mentioned, but apart from that it can be read as a stand alone no problem.
> 
> Still no Beta, I hope you all enjoy it!

Long before the War was declared over, every single hospital bed in England was occupied. Long before the War was over, soldiers were lying on make shift beds in hospital hallways. Long before the War was over, Britain had lost too many, and were still losing even more.

Churches, cloisters and monasteries opened their doors to the wounded. Nuns, monks and priests took care of as many as they could, with the little training they had.

But regardless of where the wounded were, they received less care than they needed, and even less than they deserved.

The soldiers who had been praised when fighting for the UK, who had received gratitude upon their return, found England to be a harsh home to return to.

No country was prepared for the time after the war, and Britain was no exception. The young men who survived came home without university degrees. The factories that could’ve hired them had all gone bankrupt. There was no need for these factories to produce weapons for war in peace times. Rebuilding the country after the war was a hard task, and those who had already sacrificed so much, were tasked with this as well.

Those who dreamt of a return to the country they loved were deeply disappointed. A dream of beautiful green hills, a stable job and peaceful family life all lied in ruin. London had been bombed and the rest of the nation felt like a tweed colored version of what the soldiers saw when they closed their eyes. Everything was brown and grey. The happiness and peace they fought for had been lost along with their friends in the trenches.

There was hatred growing in the hearts of British soldiers. They hated the Germans who had started the war. They hated their allies for taking too long to come to their aid, The French for falling so easily. They hated the British Government for not supporting them; The war pensions couldn’t support any family.

But most of all, they hated themselves.

They came home from the war, but none of them were the same.

Young Luke had been 17 years old when he was deployed in 1942. He had been a prolific cricket player, a clever student and a good friend. When he came home he smiled to his mother, but there was no happiness in his eyes. He had all his limbs intact, and his mother thought he was fine. Luke was not fine, and spent most days locked in his old room. Day after day he sat there. His friends came to visit, but they were met with the shell of the boy they once had known. They didn’t recognize him, and it did not take long before they simply stopped visiting.

Two months after his return, his mother knocked on his door. She had made some scones and they were fresh out of the oven. In the distance the church bells rang over the countryside. Because her son gave no reply she gently pushed the door open.

Her scream pierced through the hearts of everyone who heard it. Time stopped, but it didn’t. She simply stood there, watching him. Her warm scones cooled down, the butter started melting and the tea pot got lukewarm.

Luke’s mother was not the first who lost someone after the war. His casket had been closed for the ceremony. It would break the poor woman’s heart all over again to see the bruising around his neck. It was a short ceremony. The queue of mourning families was long, and no one were given any time to grieve.

Those who thought they had no more to lose, lost even more. There was no peace in their hearts, just fiery anger that clouded their vision.

***

Mr. Adams took a deep breath, it was ragged. The asthma he had before going to war had not been made any better in the French mud. The army doctor had cut one of his legs off when his left foot had fallen victim to hypothermia. He had been one of many.

“They’re gonna attack again.” He coughed and fell back into his bed. His previously clean hand was now covered in blood. The new doctor told him that the stump of his leg had gotten infected.

Next to him stood a bruised boy. His lip was swollen, if you looked any closer you’d see it had been bleeding just some seconds ago. Both of his eyes had matching black patches around them. The boy just let out a sigh.

“They might” he answered simply.

Mr. Adams didn’t like that answer. It made his body tense, and he started shivering. Never mind that it was late spring.

“The bastards have started two wars. They are going to start the next one! And my boy, Charlie, they’re gonna draft him too. Like they drafted me and my old man. I-I can’t loose my boy” he was pleading. He was desperate. Along with the other men in this hospital he was desperate and scared.

Out there, beyond the hospital walls were his family. His wife had been 25 years old and little Charlie hadn’t been born yet when he had been drafted in ’41. It took three years for the letters from his wife to reach him.

It was a dreary November morning in 1944 when the letter had come his way from a fellow soldier. Along with a small photograph of the two of them, his wife had told him about the boy. Charlie had been names after his father. He was a healthy boy all things considered, and he had been told countless stories of his father. Hiding in the bushes from the Germans, he had cried silent tears for his boy.

From that dreary November morning it was another six months before he could set his one remaining leg on British soil. He got to stay with his wife and son for a month, before his leg had gotten so bad that he had to go to an army hospital in London. That’s where the new doctor had told him it had gotten infected.

That’s where he was now, lying in a bed, scared of the Germans. Scared for his boy. He had fallen silent, but tears were also falling on his cheeks.

Little Charlie was going to be hurt. He was sure of it. The Germans were nasty people, they probably had thousands of soldiers in England. Waiting for the right time to come out of the shadow and hurt him even more. To hurt his boy, and his wife.

A hand got places on his shoulder.

“The Germans aren’t going to take your boy” the boy next to him told him, dragging him out of his misery.

“You don’t kn-know that” he shot back. They had taken the polish kids, the jewish kids. So many kids had been found, small skeletons with burn marks. Small skeletons that could belong to boys as big as Charlie.

“Listen to me. There’s not going to be a German soldier coming to your home and take your son.”

Adams shook his head. This lad was young, he hadn’t seen the things Adams had seen. He hadn’t…. hadn’t smelled what burning corpses smelled like.

“You’ve already missed three of his birthdays, you’re going to miss his fourth too if you don’t start fighting again. Someone has to teach your boy how to bike, and how to be a good member of society.

They have declared the war over. Germans can’t hurt you anymore, now the only ones who can hurt you and your family is yourself. Get well, and go home to your boy. Fight for yourseld and your boy, Adams. Hang in there, for Charlie”

The boy smiled to him, but Adams didn’t give him a smile in return. What he received was more tears. There was many tears worth shedding these days, Adams thought.

His cries and the boy’s smile were interrupted when a doctor came walking in to the room.

“Mr. Adams? There’s a letter - Oi! You there, boy! You shouldn’t be here, you could catch a disease!”

The boy looked at Adams, and a grin spread over his face. Then he sprinted off, waving as he ran off.

Adams took the letter from the nurse and waved after him.

“You’re a good lad, Edmund! I’mma tell Charlie about you when I get back!”

Four years later, when Mr and Mrs Adams could welcome a second son, they named him Ed.

After Edmund had left, he opened the letter.

_“Dear Soldier,_

_…”_

***

“Ed! Again?”

Mrs. Pevensie was patient when she so desired, but when it came to her youngest son, she was decidedly less so.

In front of her stood her 15-year-old son. Battered and bruised, split lip and the likes of it. In his hand two letters. One from his school, and the other from a hospital. She couldn’t see anything written on them, but she didn’t have to. It had become routine a long time ago, she had just hoped that it had stopped.

Two years ago, Edmund would come home later than his siblings nearly every day. He always looked like he should be unable to walk, yet he never once complained about pain. It was as if all his wounds had been painted on him, and she might’ve believed that too, had it not been for the letters.

In the beginning, the letter from the school said that Edmund had been fighting. Getting into fights, started fights or joining fights. But then, when the school had threatened to expel him, the letters changed. They still came, just as frequently, but they were different.

Sometimes it would say that a teacher had seen thugs on the street beating him. Other times, students had reported to the school that Edmund had fallen down stairs.

The letters from the hospital simply stated what Edmund had been treated for. His bruises, broken bones, fractured ribs etc. The broken bones and ribs were less frequent.

When the war ended, it all had been less frequent.

After he had stayed with his uncle, aunt and cousin Eustace, Edmund had gotten into decidedly fewer fights. The boy held himself differently.

Yet he still came home later than his siblings. She had no idea where he spent his time, and neither Edmund nor his siblings would give her the slightest hint of his whereabouts.

Today, her son had gotten no less than two black eyes, a split lip, and bruises over his arms.

“I hoped you had stopped this, Ed” she said with a sigh. She never felt like she had gotten through to him. He was different from the unruly boy he had been before the war, and now he acted like a young man she didn’t really know.

“I apologize. I know it hurts you” was the reply he got. How could her young little boy grow so much? They said the war changed people, but the war gave her a new set of kids. She had recognized their faces. They looked a bit older, Susan and Lucy’s hair had grown longer.

But it was the eyes first. Their eyes weren’t the same. Those eyes had seen things, and she had no idea what it was. When they had told them of their time in the countryside, it seemed ideal. But based on their eyes you would believe her kids had spent years in the streets of London, with air raids over their heads. The exact thing she had tried to prevent. Her kids were alive, but their eyes were dead.

Their personalities also differed. Before, Edmund would act as an outcast, Susan would have lectured her siblings, Peter would be stern and Lucy innocent. Now, they weren’t. The conversations they had amongst themselves were as proper as the King on the radio for Christmas. They were a lot more educated than before the war, and Mrs. Pevensie assumed she would have to give credit to the Professor they had lived with.

Sometimes, it was hard to understand that these were her kids. Like that time she had overheard Susan and Peter discuss the inherent flaw with the German democratic system before the war. She had seen Lucy, barely a teenager, plough through four Shakespeare plays in a week.

Yet what scared her the most, was some weeks after the war, when they awaited Mr Pevensie’s return. The radio had been on, and when they started talking of the soldiers who had passed away, Edmund had turned it off. He had looked over at his siblings, his eyes cold and simply stated.

“It’s not done yet. The worst is yet to come.”

Mrs. Pevensie believed him, and she was scared.

***

“Hi, Nurse Wilson”

Agatha Wilson looked up. He wasn’t as bruised as yesterday, so he must’ve only snuck in this time. She had told him time and time again that he shouldn’t have. This was no place for young boys. But time and time again he showed up.

For some people he was their only visitor. The only one who took his time to sit down, listen to their stories, and console those who needed it. Despite everything, it was something to lighten the mood.

“You shouldn’t be here, you know. There’s so much…” her voice trailed off. What was it that was so much? Blood? Wounds? Broken humans?

She looked around. The hallway used up all the space it could for beds to the wounded. One could hardly move in between them. The groans came from every corner, some were whimpering, and from a different floor you could hear a muffled scream.

The air was thick. It was as thick and dark as molasses. It crept through the rooms, into the hallway, and it poisoned everyone it touched.

Angry eyes stared into the walls. Hollow gazes inspected the bodies to which they belonged. Mr Johnson in bed 53 shouted “The Germans!” at 16.12, just like he did every day. Half the room he was in froze, scared eyes searched the room. Just like they did every day.

“…despair”. She finished. There’s so much despair.

“Mr Johnson!” Agatha watched as Edmund made his way towards bed 53, sliding between the beds. He walked gracefully, avoiding what lied on the floor, and caused minimal movements to the bed. Yet he also seemed confident. The soldiers who had talked to him during his visits, said that despite his size and age, Edmund felt strong and safe. And it felt like he knew better than anyone else.

“The Germans aren’t here for you, Mr. Johnson. The Germans aren’t here at all” he started, but poor Mr Johnson paid him no mind. He was scared, worried, damaged. He was utterly and completely traumatized.

Mr Johnson had come to their hospital from the Normandie. His fellow soldiers had brought him back to England. Shrapnel wounds covered his face and chest.

“I was too weak” he said, paying Edmund no mind. “All of them, gone. Percy, Mike, Thomas… They’re gone because of me” he took another deep breath.

“I killed them”

Agatha watched, peering over to bed 53, as she walked her round, making sure all the patients had what they needed. Edmund appeared to have climbed up and sat down in his bed.

“It sure feels like it sometimes.” Edmund said with a sigh.

Whatever Mr Johnson, of the 14th regiment and bed 53, thought he was going to hear, that was not it.

“It feels like betrayal. Your actions killed them, and thus you are the one responsible. But, you’re not. Each and every man out there was there on their own accord. None of them were there because of you.”

“But they went against orders, they should’ve left me. The Germans took them, took them because of me” Mr. Johnson objected.

Edmund gave a light shrug. “The German soldiers aren’t really to blame either. You didn’t ask to be in this war. Nor did they. There might be some agreeing with Hitler, but not all of them.

There are people in power out there who knows how to exploit the weak. Powerful men who will take young boys from their mothers, because another powerful man has done something they dislike. We’re all victims of this war, Johnson.”

Mr. Johnson and Agatha Wilson were no longer the only ones listening to the boy who was sitting on top of a moldy mattress. Every wounded man and woman within earshot had stopped their wailing and listened.

“You can keep lying here, terrified of Germans or you can continue to fight. Not against the Germans, but against yourself. If you don’t forgive yourself for the deaths of Percy, Mike and Thomas, no one else will. You can do much wrong, and still be a good man, Johnson.

But you cannot scream about the Germans. Be brave a little longer. Your mind is your new battlefield, your own thoughts are weapons. Every day is a new war. But no one can fight it for you. You can fight for Percy, Mike and Thomas.”

Mr Johnson reached out and grasped Edmund’s shoulder. He held on for dear life.

The room had gone awfully silent. Every time the clock on the wall tick’ed, it felt like it pierced through the ears of those who were listening. People held their breaths, waiting.

Agatha looked at Edmund, he held wisdom like the ‘Peter’ the papers wrote about, but his wisdom differed. The boy in the room was real, and he was right there, and somehow his young eyes looked like they had seen more war than anyone else in that room had.

Mr Johnsons hand was gently lifted away from the boys shoulder and placed in his lap. Edmund stood back on the ground, making ready to see himself out.

As graceful as when he entered, he walked through the meandering paths of the room. He stopped by the door, turned around and looked at the men lying in front of him. A sea of injured people with their eyes peeled to him. When he spoke again, Wilson started to cry. She only knew him by his first name, but he truly had to be a hero. A hero in pain.

“You’re not alone in this despair. Seek forgiveness. Find hope. And fight” With that Edmund walked out, through the hallway, and out the main doors.

***

The next day, Agatha Wilson was making her usual round when she found herself staring at the clock.

12.27

12.16 had come and passed, and Mr. Johnson in bed 53 had not as much as whispered about the Germans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering I am new to tagging, I appreciate it if you let me know if there is anything you'd like me to add/change. Your safety matters. Thank you!


	3. The Prefect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the third chapter!
> 
> It remains within the same slight canonverse. We've moved on to a anew point of view. 
> 
> As one might be able to tell, I am not from the UK, so how I have written about the graduation ceremony is nearly purely made up, and loosely based on my own international graduation from high school. I fyou have questions feel free to ask.
> 
> See you around!

Had there ever been a female Prefect who got to hold the Prefect’s graduation speech? Oscar didn’t think so, but it did not surprise him that no one had made a big deal about it. Britain might have changed during the war, but not that much, and definitely not in that direction. Honestly, he had thought they were going to do some ‘last minute’ changes. Just to pick someone else. That someone else of course being a lad. However, it seemed like that was not going to be the case, and he had no idea why. Harrison was a prefect and could have been a good choice. Was the administration scared? What were the students going to do? Cause a riot about who was going to hold a speech at their graduation ceremony? Oscar thought not.

If they were going to riot, it would be because some of the people around him had not the faintest idea who the Prefect was. To some, her face wasn’t one they knew, and others didn’t recognize the name. He knew both.

Susan Pevensie sat next to him in History, and behind him in Latin. She borrowed him some notes from a history class about the Napoleonic Wars once, and if they were anything to go by, she had definitely proved herself to be worthy of holding this speech.

His French teacher seemed to disagree. As she walked on stage, his face looked so disgusted that someone on the row behind him snorted. Oscar would snort too, but considering he nearly flunked French, he might as well keep shut. He could never be sure that the grumpy old man would not change his grade..

Around him sat his peers. Some he had barely spoken with, but two seats to his left sat John, and they were best mates. Parents were sprinkled around the students. There was an awful lot of dads missing.

> **“Dear head master, dear teachers and dear parents. Thank you for your presence. All of us are, in some shape or another, here because of your influence on our lives. Despite the effort you have put into it, this day is not for you, and it is not you whom I will address”**

John did not really know Susan Pevensie. Oscar had told him she was pretty clever, and she was a prefect. That’s what he officially knew. They had none of the same subjects and she was hardly the most social person he had ever met. With all due respect to himself, he wasn’t that much of a social butterfly either.

Boarding school just made two types of people. Some people were like him, and he supposed Susan. Closed off, but still friendly.

Others became social butterflies like you had never seen. They shared the things you didn’t really need to know. Intentional or not. Like thumping sounds from broom closets. It was a memory John would gladly forget.

Unofficially, he did however know Susan. At least a little bit. John could – unofficially of course - tell you about a gentle girl who once had mail-duty and had had handed him a letter sent from his mother. When she had seen his face, she had told him to not worry about it. He could be sick when they were to visit the neighboring Catholic boarding school for a football match. They would let him stay here.

He would secretly pray to the catholic version of God if it meant he never had to step a foot in a catholic school with his mother’s watchful eyes hanging over him. John is pretty sure he could get a girl pregnant, and still end up with less scolding from his mother than if he accidently stepped into a catholic boarding school.

His dad called it ‘fraternizing with the enemy’ whenever one had to be in contact with them. He considered it nearly as bad as helping the Germans. Except no one went to war courts for talking to - or being in the same room as - Catholics. Or maybe they did that in Ulster where his dad was from? John wouldn’t know. He had never been there.

At least he had not been the poor sod who got Felicia pregnant. He didn’t know who that had been. She might not have kept her legs shut, but her lips were practically sewn. The rumors had gotten as far as suggesting the janitor.

She was so good at keeping her mouth shut, that if it had been a football match, the score would be 1-0 to Felicia. Apart from the whole bringing up a bastard part… that might give her a disadvantage that one goal couldn’t really make up for. It was really a disadvantage that equaled all her players getting red cards except for one lousy midfielder. He hoped Felicia would find some better players soon.

> **“…**
> 
> **Fellow students,**
> 
> **When today is over, you will all walk out of this room with your heads held high. It is your hard work that have gotten you here.**
> 
> **I am not here to tell you what is considered hard work. If you did your best, that was hard work. Hard work sanctions a feeling of pride. Today you may be proud.**
> 
> **You can be humble the other 364 days of the year. But today you may keep your head high, shoulders relaxed and back straight. Your accomplishments speak for themselves, and in your hearts,  you should know that all the praise you have been given is well deserved.**
> 
> **What is done is done. You cannot change the time you have spent here, and the achievements you have gained and lost in the process.**
> 
> **You’re like a soldier travelling to new country. You have your tools and weapons to work with, but how you must work depends on the state of the country you arrive in.**
> 
> **It could appear safe at first sight, a calm winter wonderland appearing out of nowhere. But in the shadow lurks challenges you never could have imagined.**
> 
> **Or maybe it doesn’t appear safe. Maybe the challenges meet you the moment you step onto the new land. Like a civil war tearing a nation apart, with political assassinations happening the moment you look the wrong way. But then, after facing those challenges head on, the country might end up being in better shape than you could ever have imagined.**
> 
> **Your lives are much the same. Just like a soldier receiving training, you are a student who have been educated. The same resources have been given to all us. But our lives meander from this point forward. The challenges we will face will be different. But never think any less of your fellows, their challenges are different.**
> 
> **But they are just as hard.**
> 
> **…”**

Had it been another mother, there should have been tears of joy, bewilderment and wonder as the baby in her stomach kicked for the first time. But it was not another mother; it was Felicia. She wanted to not be pregnant more than anything else.

She wanted to not be pregnant a lot more than she wanted her dad back. He would have disgraced her, and worse. A young girl like Felicia, pregnant? With a bastard child? She could feel the tremble in his voice, and the sound of wood on flesh. Felicia did not want her dad back at all. He could stay in some unmarked war grave.

It was easier this way. Just her, her mum, and whoever was growing in her tummy.  It wasn’t easy, but at least it allowed her to stay at home for a little longer. She could clean and cook. There had to be work out there? Something to do? Something to make sure she had the means to make sure this child could grow up.

But she wished it would settle down a bit. Kick less. Her best dress had been sown out as far as the most skilled seamstress ever could manage. Her bump was there. Despite trying to layer with scarves and other elements, it was right there, and everyone could see it.

Felicia looked around. She sat with her mother as far back in a corner as they could. Fewer prying eyes. Less rude comments, and hopefully less rumors. She might be strong, but her mum did not need to know what they said about her. She was so fragile, her mum. Even more fragile than Felicia.

Stupid, stupid dad.

She glanced as far as she could, between the rows of people. On the third row, in between his two parents, sat Harrison. She wasn’t mad at him. It was not his fault that she was dumb and got pregnant.

Because of that she had never told anyone. Not even on that one particularly nasty day when Gertrude from Latin had told her that she hoped the broom closet was nice and asked whom she had been there with. Felicia had kept her mouth shut.

Susan Pevensie had been the only one who bothered shushing Felicia away from the crowds. People always seemed to gather around her. As if they were used to so much adrenaline from the war that they sought every single conflict they could see. Susan had helped her to some privacy, but Felicia had not needed to leave.

She was not a snitch, she was not going to tell!

Later that day Harrison had walked by her and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’, making sure no one had seen him do so.

So, Felicia had been quiet back then, and she was going to be quiet now. Her dad had taught her how to.

> **“…**
> 
> **No one gets any further in life my accepting the status quo. When you question, you learn. When you learn you thrive, and when you thrive as a human being you truly have accomplished something extraordinary.**
> 
> **We hadn’t gotten to where we are today without our ability to question.**
> 
> **Question your teachings. A second source of information can be the difference between life and death. But it’s rarely your life it will affect. Your actions have far greater consequences than you imagine. You can hurt people you don’t even know walk the earth.**
> 
> **Question authority. If we had not questioned Mussolini, Hitler, or any other dictator out there, the country we live in today could have been lost. More of our friends, our siblings, our families and our country men would have been lost.**
> 
> **But also question the authority of the familiar. Age may grant a person experience, but experience and wisdom are not the same. If you can’t go against your own, against your father, mother, brother or sister, you may never be able to fight yourself.**
> 
> **Remember to question faith. Everyone in this room has taken history, and will know that the Crusades were brutal. It was done in the name of religion. In the name of Christianity. Nothing stands above criticism or skepticism. Because sometimes, leaving doesn’t hurt as much as the never-ending pain of staying.**
> 
> **…“**

His father asked – though in hindsight in might have been more like an overly eager suggestion – if he needed to take it up with the school board that his son had been snubbed for the chance of speaking at the graduation ceremony. Harrison had kindly declined and said something about how he was a horrible speech writer. The latter had been partially true, but it was not the reason why he would rather his father not talk to the school board. Some battles were his own, and this was one he didn’t need nor want to fight.

The Pevensie girl was without a doubt a much better student than he ever had been. She had offered to take some of his Prefect duties whenever he had had bad days. After a particularly nasty week, she had listened to him as he told her how scared he was about his father hearing of his newest biology grade. With a gentle smile and hug she had lifted his spirits, and never spoken of the matter to anyone.

If he must think about it, Harrison mused that he didn’t really like his father. He doubted anyone would state so outright, but if anyone had told him his father had been a bully, he liked to think he would correct them and say the he still was one.

Harrison knew for a fact that he hadn’t been good enough. He was never going to be it either. Not in his eyes. It might have been why he related so much to Felicia.

But he knew that it was he who had caused this to her. It had been his fault, yet she had taken all the blame. She could’ve told people it had been him. He would be humiliated enough for a lifetime. As would his parents. They could’ve forced him to marry Felicia to avoid the bastard child.

But she hadn’t told a soul. It was kindness he never felt like he deserved. He had both his parents, despite how awful they were. They were well off, he lacked for nothing. She lacked for so much. They could blackmail his dad and live good lives. That’s what everyone else would do. What his parents would do.

When this ceremony was over, Harrison thought he should talk to Felicia. He didn’t want this for her. Not when he could help her carry the pain. It could not be as bad as the one he lived through anyways.

> **“…**
> 
> **I don’t ask you to question the world because I want you to mistrust it. I don’t want you to lose trust in your friends, or family. But no one can be held to a higher standard than skepticism. I am asking you to question what you see read and hear. Not to suspect that King George VI is behind ‘Peter’s Apology’.**
> 
> **Everything is better in moderation. A couple of sweets tastes sweeter than the entire bowl. A few hours hard labor feels like an accomplishment, but if it’s all you do, it’s a chore.**
> 
> **Trust, and skepticism too comes in various degrees and form of moderation. You might question whether parliament does a good enough job, wondering if they are secretly lizard-people is going too far.**
> 
> **You may give trust freely, but it will hurt you if you constantly must revoke it.**
> 
> **But do trust in your own abilities. Overestimating yourself is the extreme, underestimating the other. Trusting you, yourself and your own abilities is a good start.**
> 
> **Sometimes you can trust a little more, for example if your siblings one day tell you that a Beaver is talking. It’s okay to believe for a while. But never forget to question when the surprise has died down.**
> 
> **Dear, students. Dare I say dear friends; the first leg of the journey has passed. But the next will also be difficult.**
> 
> **Tomorrow we may question. Yesterday we trusted.**
> 
> **Today, we are proud”**

Susan Pevensie made an elegant, seemingly well practiced, curtsy, and then returned to her seat. Oscar, John, Felicia and Harrison applauded the loudest. On the stage just before there had been a woman of harsh truths, but gentle nature.

Even Harrison’s father lazily clapped his hands together when she exited the small podium.

Glances were shared across the sea of students, eager anticipation awaited. One could see how the usual slouched students, now sat with their heads held high. The atmosphere was filled with it.

They were graduating students. And they felt proud.


	4. A Handfull of Daisies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there darlings,
> 
> This chapter features the last Pevensie siblings. I suppose this is not too much of a surprise to anyone. I don't know of I will continue this series, but I might. I make no promises. I feel like I have one or two chapters in my mind, but it has to feel right, as I am sure you know.
> 
> I don't think this is as triggering of a subject as usual, but it does talk much of death. 
> 
> Please enjoy,   
> Have a delightful day

Richard Hammersmith did not care much for retirement. For the most time his work was easy labor. At least in contrast to that of all his friends. While some of his cousins had been forced to retire out of the coalmines, he lived a good life. The pay was good enough, and he could always retire later.

His dear Marian had wanted him to retire for years. They had talked about moving to Devon, the Lake District or wherever else the trains could take them. But he wasn’t ready yet, but he had considered it once.

In ’38 he had received a bonus. After some gentle nagging from his Wife, they had even taken the time to visit Kent, to see if that could be the right area for them. It hadn’t been, so they decided against it. They were a bit too far away from what they knew, and the Atlantic had called for them for decades.

A week later, the 12th of March, Germany had annexed Austria. What had started as whispers in hallways Richard had never been in, became hushed chatter in the streets he walked daily.

Every day he hoped they could stay away from his line of work. He didn’t want to hear of it. Did not want to see them. It made it more crowded, but also lonelier than before. It made his work harsher and more taxing. He knew Marian already prayed for him as often as she could.

They had started praying harder when Germany annexed Czechoslovakia. The government issued a royal decree where they demanded that all British men between 20 and 22 had to report for army registration.

Richard and Marian had cried when their son’s letter had arrived in the mail. Telling them that Jimmy, his son, and their grandson had to register. He was but 20 years and 19 days when the decree had been issued.

1939 began, and it took mere months before his hopes shattered. What he desired the least had come true. The hard work he wished it never would come to was upon him, and there was no time to shed tears.

It had been with sad eyes Brown had shook his head and whispered. Five of them, and they had to be done before Friday. More would come, so he told Richard to keep working if he finished the first five.

Richard Hammersmith gathered his shovel. It hurt him, but it must hurt Father Brown more than him. Therefore he simply went to work, if his fears came true it would be enough to do.

The five that originally had been requested turned into 13 by Wednesday evening. Thursday morning they realized that Richard needed help and hired a young lad to assist. It was heavy labor. Not so heavy on the body, but heavy on the soul.

Richard never really got used to digging graves.

***

“I pray you weren’t someone’s brother. I nearly lost mine once, and the pain I carried never really went away, despite how he lives and breathes today.”

Richard looked up. He was four feet into the ground currently digging the third grave of the day. Not too far away sat a girl about 10 years old. She sat in front of one of the rather new graves. If Richard remembered correctly, the burial was two weeks ago.

According to father Brown, no one had showed up to the ceremony. He had confided in Richard the day after, saying that he hoped God would forgive him this once for thinking that he appreciated it for the little break it gave him.

Now, there sat a girl there, one that didn’t seem to know the dead fellow at all. It didn’t seem like she wanted to defile the grave. She just sat there in her school uniform, with her bag next to her, chatting to the cross in the ground.

“24 years old. If you had made it for some more months you could’ve been 25. It’s a weird age to be, being halfway to 50 and all. Sue said that’s when she found her first grey hair.”

The little girl snickered, as if she remembered a very funny story. She must have, because she started telling one, and he used that time to start digging again.

Two more feet. He had been six feet below far too much for a man who was still breathing.

“Ed was so rude, can you believe? He told her he had been finding her grey hairs for years, that she had been selectively blind to the color grey. Well, maybe not that rude. I did laugh, I must admit. But we had found loads of grey hairs on Peter too. In addition, his hair started thinning at 20. We might just have very bad genes”

Of course, Richard was not listening. He simply had a smoking break at the same time. They needed breaks, and Father Brown let them have as many as they needed. He called them periods of contemplation and praying. He did not pray too much in his breaks, but he often cracked his back, stretched, and had a cigarette. All in the line of duty of course.

Marian might not like it when he smoked at the cemetery, but she realized he needed it. His smoking picked up when his work did, and as long as he refrained from the bottle his wife was happy. It took money out of their pocket, but as did Marian’s tea parties. Each to their own. It costed a bit more to get one through these troubling times, but it was worth the pennies in his pockets.

“I hope you rest peacefully Thomas. I’ll try to get some flowers for you the next time I come by!”

The girl rose on her feet, grabbed her bag and walked out of the cemetery. She stopped at no other grave and walked out.

As soon as she was out, Richard crushed the butt of his cigarette under his shoe sole. With a little more work, he arrived at his destination. The world didn’t feel too different at six feet, but he made sure to stay there as little as possible. Tempting the devil was not Richard’s cup of tea.

When he proceeded to the next plot he noticed that the grave the little girl had sat by was the only one without planted flowers. The only grave without visitors. It was one of many graves, but it looked lonelier than the others. It had had one visitor now. Richard would make sure to tell Father Brown come tomorrow morning.

***

“Hi there Thomas. I brought some daisies for you.”

It must have been a week since the girl had been by last. The days had started to mesh into a single stream of continuity. A dark stream. Richard’s eye sight was still with him, but he struggled seeing the end of this misery. There was always a new grave.

The girl held some daisies in her hand, and used her hand, and no shovel, to dig a hole in the little flower bed before the cross. Gently the flowers were placed into the ground, and the dirt was patted around them.

Richard watched as she rose back on her feet. Maybe she wasn’t staying as long this time, there might be someone waiting for her. With some quick glances he looked around the area. There were no adults in sight. Just him, the lad, and a little girl in school uniform. She was here all by herself.

“I told Ed about you, and he said he can be your brother in arms, so you’re not so alone anymore. I planted these daisies with you. Maybe they will make you cheer up. You were probably very handsome back before all of this, so I am just going to return some of that to you. You can still be pretty. Both here and in memory. Inside and out.”

That appeared to be all for today, because the girl gave a wave to the grave – Thomas, he corrected himself, and then walked away. She did however not walk out. She headed to another grave.

It had been fresh the last time she had been here, but now it had been patted down, and some green could be spotted in the dirt. There were new names every day, and Richard had done his best to not remember any of them. He feared he would get attached.

“I see your name is Sebastian, it’s rather pretty I think”

She still had some daisies left in her hand, so again she used her hand to dig into the dirt, gently place the flowers there, filling with dirt, and patting it down again. Everything was done with respect and deft hands. It looked like someone who had repeated this action many times. Perhaps a time too many, if all of them were in graveyards.

“I know it must have caused you great pain to end up where you are now, but I hope He has eased all your pain. So that you can be in peace. It’s still raging, but you should be proud of yourself. Peter says that those who survive have lost more than one can lose. Sometimes I think he forgets that people like you don’t have anything left to lose. That’s why you’re here after all.”

Richard had to explain War to his son when the previous war had broken out. He had been too young to be drafted, and for that, Richard thanked the heavens. He had tried to explain to his son what was going on, what war was, but his words fell short. He could never explain and answer their questions. They undoubtedly had questions, but even if he was 60 years old, he still would not know how to answer them. Somehow this girl seemed to have more answers than him, and even fewer questions.

“The battlefields are so crowded. It’s chaotic. But here it’s just as crowded. It just doesn’t feel like it because every inch of the field has a purpose. Now this inch has a purpose of keeping these daisies. I hope you like them”

She rose again and took a look around. When her eyes met Richard’s he nearly dropped his shovel. He expected the gleeful face of a child. Possibly a sad face, but not her face. It held calm sorrow, as if she was grieving, and had been for quite some time. But it did not hold the grief of mothers who lost their sons, or boys who lost their friends.

Her face held great similarity to the face he had seen in paintings time and time again. Queen Victoria had grieved her husband for a long time, and Richard could not help but notice the similarity. Apart from the loss of husband. His eyes surely had to play him a trick, because the girl in the field looked far less like a 10-year-old, then a young woman of 25.

Slowly she approached him, and a smile found its way to her face.

“My name is Lucy”

Richard managed to mutter his name and give a small bow with his head. He kept looking down, feeling like he intruded at his own workplace.

“Thank you, for your work.”

He watched as the pair of feet in front of him turned on their heels, and then started walking off. When he looked up, the girl – Lucy, stood at the gate and gave him a wave.

“I’ll be seeing you Mr. Hammersmith” He returned her wave, and then continued with his work.

***

A couple of weeks later, Lucy returned. Her visits were never following a schedule, but rather seemed to happen when she had time. In her hands she held an abundance of daisies. She must have heard.

Now that he knew what, or perhaps more accurately whom, she was looking for, it was easy to know where she would be. At the closest lonely grave there was a boy named Marcus. An aunt had showed up for his funeral, but also left shortly after.

On top of the dirt there lied a small shovel. It was one of Marian’s old ones. Richard did not hide much from his wife, and the young girl who used her hands to dig in the dirt had not been something he had withheld from her. As soon as she heard it she had located one of her old shovels and told him to let the girl, Lucy, use it.

There it lied, waiting for her. She saw it instantly and looked over at him. A grateful smile shone back to him, and he made a mental note of her face, so he could describe it to his wife over dinner.

While she dug, she spoke to the cross. Her voice as soft and calm as always, but still as sad.

“You’re all brothers in arms, comrades during war. Yet there’s no one here when you come back. I am sorry for not arriving sooner, Marcus. I hope old Mr. Hammersmith keeps you company.”

Richard wouldn’t call it company per say. If it was real quiet, he had started to talk a bit. Introduce himself. Mostly the graves he worked with, had yet to be filled, so it was not often he talked. It felt weird talking to one grave, while digging another.

Marcus on the other hand, he had talked a bit to. When he placed the shovel there he had made sure to let him know that young Lucy had a heart of gold, and that he ought to be grateful to her. Richard would have been if it was him who lied there.

“It is easy to feel like you’re one of many. One of many registered, one of many conscripted, one of many soldiers. One of many fallen”

Lucy rose on her feet and grabbed the shovel. The papers had written about the many who had fallen, and Richard supposed that’s how she knew there were more to visit that day. She waved a goodbye to Marcus and proceeded to the next one, just a few yards away.

“Hi, …Arthur. I will have to be briefer than I’d like. I’m here with some daisies for you.”

It should appear like routine, but it didn’t. As if every time she planted a flower it was like the other time. Yet each time was special. Every flower was managed with respect, and she spoke as if the man in the ground was just a friend she had yet to meet. Richard knew there was much courage in loving someone who could never return that love.

“It’s going to be warmer the next week, so I hope that’s to your liking. Say hi to Him for me”

Then Lucy went on. Theodore, Lawrence, Johnathan and William all were talked to, and all had flowers placed upon their grave.

The air felt more at ease after her visit. As if the souls of the young men had waited for someone to show them some last caring gesture, before they could pass on. Meet at his gates knowing the world below was okay. Kept safe by a young girl whose name was Lucy.

***

Richard never wanted to dig a grave, but he did so nonetheless. For 35 years he had dutifully dug graves as the church had asked of him. This was one grave he could not dig. Father Brown would not have let him should even if he have asked, and thus the lad had been sent to work.

The funeral was modest, and the attendance also so. He and Marian, their Son and some friends. His young boy had been lowered down. Into a hole, six feet into the ground. Down where Richard had been so many times and come back from. Jimmy would never come back. Jimmy would stay there.

As the lad began shuffling dirt over the wooden casket, there was not a dry eye around. Father Brown too struggled with keeping his voice as straight as it should be. Grief was easier on a distance. It hurt when you knew.

It hurt when it was his Jimmy. His young kid, who had laughed and called him Gramps the last time he has seen him. ‘Don’t Worry’ he had said, ‘I never plan to be at your work, gramps’ and that was it. It was a promise Jimmy didn’t keep.

***

Two days later he was sitting in front of Jimmy’s cross. The lad had to work twice as hard the past two days, but had never once complained. He was the strength Richard didn’t have.

He didn’t notice Lucy as she entered. Never registered that she walked over to him and didn’t see the flowers in her hand. First when she spoke, he was dragged out of his misery.

“Your grandpa is crying for you, Jimmy Hammersmith”

Richard had not noticed the tears, or his wet face. He would not know when he had started crying. If he had stopped at all the past days. Perhaps only to sleep.

“I usually only plant daisies for those without visitors, but I can always spare one for you. Richard is my friend, and his tears can water this plant.”

Just like he had seen her do countless times before, she bent forwards, and found a place fitting for a small daisy and its roots. It was placed with so much love and care that Richard started crying even more.

“He loves you so much. No grandparent wants their children to die before them. I am sorry that you have to see this Jimmy, but he needs time. Time to heal. It will not heal completely. But it will heal. He will never stop loving you, and that’s okay. You can rest now, Jimmy.”

Never once did she acknowledge Richard as she spoke, but he did not mind. She was here for his young boy. She was here for Jimmy who had lost his first tooth in his and Marian’s living room. The boy who laughed louder than any of the other kids. He who never understood math.

Lucy sat there, in front of Jimmy’s grave, and became Jimmy’s friend. She let his hand rest on top of Richards, and then went on to the other graves. Giving him room to grieve, and air to breathe. Little by little he would heal.

***

As the years went by, Lucy had visited both frequently and less so. Every time a there had been a big battle she had brought more daisies than usual. Every single flower had been spread around. Not a single cross stood without flowers at it’s bottom.

The first gravse, the one belonging to Thomas, Sebastian, Arthur at the others, had grown fields of daisies, all stemming from the little flowers Lucy had brought so many years ago. Other graves too had small bushes of daisies covering the ground. The little she had left behind, had grown and thrived.

The war had been over for quite some time, but she still dropped by. She still went to school nearby and still took time to drop by with a handful of daisies in her hands.

This week, Richard had finally given in to Marian. He was to retire, and in his pocket, he held two train tickets to Cornwall. They planned to leave in two weeks’ time.

He had told Lucy about his retirement last week. The lad was to take over his responsibilities, so now she would have to befriend him too. She had told him that she was going away for a short while, but that she hoped to be back and see him before he left for Cornwall. She was going with her two brothers, and he had wished her a safe journey.

On Monday this week, Father Brown had told him that three graves had to be dug next to each other, their funeral was on Wednesday, so it left him and the lad ample time.

They had dug three fine graves, and when Wednesday morning came, the funeral was held. It was an odd party, it felt like there was missing quite a variety of people, but Richard didn’t comment. Many families had lost members after the war had ended 4 years ago.

His work day had ended before the funeral had, so he came back the following morning. Two days left of his work. Marian had told him that there had been a terrible train accident some days ago, and he thought nothing of it until he arrived safely at work.

He walked over to the new crosses and looked at them. First lied Peter Pevensie, then lied Edmund Pevensie. Their names all too familiar. At the last gravehis breath hitched.

All the way to the right stood a white cross. With beautiful engravings he read

 

_“Lucy Pevensie_

_1932-1949_

_Courage, dear heart”_

***

On his second last day of work, he had cried tears for a 17-year-old girl. He had told the lad about Lucy, a girl who had been 10 years old the first time he saw her. Who repeatedly had shown up and comforted those who had no visitors.

On his last day of work, he walked in with Marian in tow. In their hands they held as many daisies as they could hold onto.

They covered the ground around the three crosses in daisies.

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's it. Peter's Apology. It is based upon my own little drabble that you can find on tumblr. Let me know if you want it. That is however much shorter, and this is the lengthier one. It can always be longer, but I simply like this length.


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